


Honzen-ryōri

by drinkbloodlikewine, whiskeyandspite



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Bottom!Hannibal, Canon Timeline, Dominance, Kitchen Sex, M/M, Post shiizakana, Rough Sex, dark!Will
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-11
Updated: 2014-10-11
Packaged: 2018-02-20 17:06:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2436356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drinkbloodlikewine/pseuds/drinkbloodlikewine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeyandspite/pseuds/whiskeyandspite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Nothing reminds one of life like the taking of it,” he murmurs, ducking his head as Will presses his teeth against his throat, up to tug against his ear - animalistic, desirous, a wild thing contained within the quiet form that Will Graham presents the world.</i>
</p>
<p>Post-Shiizakana where Will has just shown his dominance by killing Tier and Hannibal wants to feel that dominance for himself.</p>
<p><b>Honzen-ryōri:</b> The formal cuisine of the warrior-class was developed in the late 16th century.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Honzen-ryōri

**Author's Note:**

  * For [solamentenic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/solamentenic/gifts).



> Another [commission](http://wwhiskeyandbloodd.tumblr.com/donate), this time by the amazing [wiith-my-hands](http://wiith-my-hands.tumblr.com/)!! Thank you bb for your lovely words and support and donation. We really hope this is what you wanted and you enjoy it as much as we did writing it :)

“What will you do with him?”

The steady drip of blood against the floor paces itself against the clock, beats meeting in time only to separate again. Will watches it, pooling and thickening on the immaculate floor, and wonders if Hannibal has a special mop just for such occasions.

It isn’t a rarity that Hannibal’s dinners are brought home in pieces so fresh they’re still bleeding, but it is a bit unusual for the entire delivery to be laid across his table, whole.

Will flexes his fingers, one at a time, pinky rolling to pointer until all are clenched. The bandage stretches over them, and he drops his hand to his side, lingering in the doorway. His feet are bare, shoes and socks, coat and scarf, all shed. Face scrubbed clean of the blood that spattered across it and hair hanging lank into his eyes, Will lifts his attention to Hannibal as he passes by. They are each underdressed, and each mostly unaware of the other being so.

Almost as though they live here, together.

Almost as though Will’s hand isn’t swollen to useless from beating a man to death.

Almost as though that same young man’s remains aren’t bleeding out onto the dining room floor.

Almost.

But not quite.

“Will you eat him?”

Hannibal makes a sound of displeasure and lets his eyes linger on Will just a moment.

"Don't be crude, Will." The other merely lifts his eyes and the corners of his mouth. Hannibal seems to pay the response no mind. "He will find a place at my table, in time."

It's absurd, the semantic deliberation, and yet the man seems determined to keep only the refined in his home, be it beautifully prepared or entirely laid bare, as Randall Tier rests now.

Almost crude.

But never quite.

"I had hoped we would share the meal," Hannibal adds, running cool water over his hands, soap lathered to his elbows like a surgeon would have it. Old habits die hard, perhaps. "The preparation of him."

Another glance up, lingering looks and quiet breathing.

"It is so rare that I get such a gift." Droplets fall bright from the tips of elegant fingers before a towel wraps around them to pat them dry.

"Yes," Will says.

He doesn't clarify what to, or the specific source of the churn low in his stomach. He's been sick twice already - once when he peeled himself off of Randall, stumbling back over a hydraulic limb and jostling the limp body horribly, and a second time when he excused himself here to wash his face, and saw another's blood tint the water pink.

Scarlet spreads across the bandage, and Will's lips press into a taut smile.

"You made me do this."

Hannibal raises a brow, folding the towel over in three.

"No," Will amends, fist opening and closing, flexing and clenching. "You made me _choose_ to do this. A perfect freedom to act with impunity, under the auspices of 'self-defense' and 'reasonable doubt'."

He sighs something that sounds like a laugh.

"Such superficial considerations, next to this. The ease of it. Almost effortless."

Almost.

"Effortlessness suggests boredom, no forethought or consideration, Will, it would be most unfair to aim for effortlessness with something like this." He tilts his head, sets the towel to the edge of the sink and turns to watch Will properly as he rests his weight against it.

Will had come to him nervous and tense, too many images behind his eyes turning every well-oiled cog in his mind so fiercely, so quick, that they had set him on fire.

And Hannibal had watched, to see what would happen, watched as slowly, deliberately, the machine inside Will Graham had found a rhythm, had learned to turn efficiently and brought this creature before him, instead.

All those months.

All it had taken was setting the old world around Will on fire, showing him that he was iron, tempered, folded, made stronger.

Hannibal holds tighter to the sink to not allow the tremor that slips pleasantly beneath his skin to show in his hands, desirous and wanting, a submission earned and offered.

He licks his lips, settles his eyes on Will.

"You are a remarkable boy, Will," he tells him honestly.

“Was I not before?”

Will ducks his head, a play at shyness that does not carry into his eyes, still scarcely narrowed, with a mirthless smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He lets his attention linger on Hannibal a moment more, the other’s body language not lost on him, leaning against the sink, chin lifted to bare his neck, however slightly.

A curious tilt of Will’s head precedes slow steps forward, a tight swallow loosens his words.

“You knew that it would end this way,” he suggests, no anger in his words, but a curiosity flaring match-bright in the darkness of his thoughts. “For all his armor, his claws and teeth, you knew that sending him to my house would lead to this.”

The warmth of their time together in this kitchen cools in time with the body on the table, their words dripping to ichorous viscosity, black between them. Will feels, for a moment, an itch along his spine so intense it nearly burns, and it’s all he can do to laugh.

“Did you imagine it, Hannibal? Play it out again and again in your mind?”

Another hum, dark eyes growing hooded as they follow Will’s progress across the kitchen and into his space, but they do not close.

"Just as you do now,” he says, implication if not an answer, his tone dipped lower, now, warmer, a pleasure so deep it is like the vibrations of the earth itself.

"I knew I was sending Randall to his death, because for all his machines, his claws and teeth, he is only a monster as he imagines the one in his mind to be. Draw a monster, why is it a monster?" Hannibal lifts a hand, turns it to place cool knuckles against Will’s cheek, linger. "He was a drawing born of a child's mind and a desire to be powerful. Real monsters wear human skin, they smile and walk."

"They allow feasts to present themselves."

Hannibal’s smile reaches his eyes, delighted and enamored with the stunning creature before him. He turns his hand to cup Will’s face, leans close enough to press their foreheads together, to share the soft breaths between them. Will’s skin is chilled, still, cold to the touch - from the weather outside or the shock or both.

He wears it well, a cool smile curving his lips as he brushes his nose alongside Hannibal’s, the words kissing slowly between them.

“Does it please you?” Will asks, cradling Hannibal’s cheek in his bandaged hand, battered and numb. Accusation in his words, acknowledgement that although the feast was presented to him, it was Will who made the choice to partake - to stalk and kill, to drag the carcass back to their den, limbs trembling with a new awareness of their use, their potential.

"I am very pleased,” he agrees, a nod that shifts them closer together. "As should you be."

The tension between them hums like a plucked low note, enough to feel but not to hear, just against their bones, beneath their skin. Hannibal parts his lips but only feels Will’s brush against them, a breath moved but little else besides.

It is a dance, now, between two killers no longer blinded to each other; the tango of the compadron. A complement to the other, a dance so often preceding a battle. Hannibal moves, barely half a step back, rocking, and finds Will following keenly, attuned and concentrating.

"How did it feel?"

Will tilts his head, something inhuman - more than - in the gesture as he presses his cheek against Hannibal’s and turns his head aside, lips parting on a soundless breath to feel the man move for him, bend for him in this way.

“I felt alive,” Will whispers against his ear. His hand slides higher, through the back of Hannibal’s hair, to catch the silken strands beneath his fingers and squeeze, tugging gently backwards. The skin splits again across his knuckles, synapses firing hot at this new memory, branded into him already, and he hums at the sensation.

Pushing closer, their bodies meet in full as Will leans over Hannibal, bending him nearly backwards over the counter.

“Bone breaking beneath my hand, cutting through soft flesh,” he sighs. “Blood, hot against my fingers, his body arching under mine.” Will lifts his free hand to Hannibal’s chest, skims the front of his shirt to meet his neck, fingers settling against it.

“I thought about you the entire time.”

Hannibal's heart does not stutter, nor does it speed, but his breathing does in its stead, and Will’s fingers curl barely tighter where they rest.

"Intimate," Hannibal murmurs, tone still warm, still heavy where his words fall against skin scoured clean. "Deliberate. Would you see me so splayed, Will? Would you see me arch beneath you, bones splitting skin for breath?"

He bends further as Will pulls him, an undeniable allowance of this, a pleasure to see this taken where the slighter - but far from weaker - man desires it.

"Would you feel alive to taste my pulse against your tongue?"

Far from the gentle touches, fluttering and warm, that they shared only days before, when Will curved around Hannibal and sighed against his skin with little sounds of need, he is something else now, with claws that rend and teeth that tear, the smell of blood and adrenaline racing metallic across his tongue that parts Hannibal’s lips to taste his words.

A rough twist of his wrist snaps Hannibal’s mouth away from his own just as quickly, eyes black with pupil as they settle on Hannibal, as another soft nuzzle glides threatening against his cheek.

“An act of reciprocity,” Will breathes, “to return the favor of such intimacy.”

Strength still tight in his arms, Will leans back and with a fluid, jarring motion, turns Hannibal against the counter. His fingers loosen in his hair, stroking softly, almost reassuring in his touch.

Almost.

Hannibal goes, a willing instrument for Will to manipulate and work with. There has never been a moment where Hannibal has seen him as lesser, as weaker. In need of guidance perhaps, instruction, but only ever enough to teach, never to adjust, to change.

The creature coiling behind him now is just the creature who had avoided his eyes in Jack's office in their initial meeting.

All things need time and trust to bloom and show their teeth. In a yawn of reminder or a snarl of conviction.

He bends for Will now, arches his neck for him to find his vulnerability there. He knows the blood still runs hot through Will's veins, still feels hot against his lips, that he is still in a thrall with his kill, enchanted, terrified, excited.

He is no fledgling killer here, he is reptilian and powerful.

"My Will." He whispers, turns his head to be able to catch those dark eyes on his own.

"Yours," Will grins, teeth bared flashing white as their eyes meet, as his fingers tighten to bruising against Hannibal's pale throat. His pulse is as steady as the drip of blood against the floor, metronomic, and Will feels his own raise counterpoint to it.

Double-time.

Triple.

Racing, savage, as he shoves himself against Hannibal, grinding their hips together, marking territory, as he has in his own home in blood and bone, so will he do here, in semen and sweat.

"Off," Will instructs, his own voice low foreign to him, numb fingers not his own snaring in the waist of well-fitted trousers. Beautiful, tailored, perfectly made to contain the horror inside of him. As Will soon will be, to breed their carnage together.

They haven't always been this way. There has been kindness - there may still be - an unexpected friendship, care for the other, quiet nights and mornings aglow with pale light and searching hands. A sound, soft, shudders past Will's lips at the thought - as though there is another inside of him, a smaller voice crying out through heady breaths and snarls as he loses himself to the savagery.

He swallows it down, and lets it smother.

"Now."

A shiver, soft, and Hannibal ventures a hand down to work the catch, the invisible button holding the waist beautifully flat against his stomach, the fly. He allows Will the cruel tug to bare him, relishes the heat pressed against his back and down to his thighs.

“Nothing reminds one of life like the taking of it,” he murmurs, ducking his head as Will presses his teeth against his throat, up to tug against his ear - animalistic, desirous, a wild thing contained within the quiet form that Will Graham presents the world.

He wonders how many people know what lies beneath that skin, how many had seen, had felt, the monster there.

He’s beautiful this way, truly alive this way. Here exactly what he is meant to be.

“Should I take yours too?” Will muses. “You know how much I think about it, still.” An empty threat, only meant to titillate and tease, enough to merely hear those words spoken with Hannibal bent before him. An act of dominance, claiming mind as well as body.

He wets two fingers between his lips and slips them up along the tender skin between Hannibal’s legs, following it back to his opening and pressing, firm, fingers spread, not yet inside him but the threat, the promise that he soon will be.

“Or I’ll just take you instead.”

Ugly words and uglier thoughts, and as Will feels his resistance weaken, he knows that Hannibal sees it as anything but.

“Spread,” Will says low, turning Hannibal’s face towards his own, kissing open-mouthed against his jaw.

It’s all he can do to smile, to feel the predator against him, to give him what he wants, and Hannibal obeys. Stretches one hand out before him to clasp the other side of the counter, lets his eyes linger on the prone form growing pale and rigid on the table.

Proof of partnership.

Proof of power.

Like a cat bringing a dead thing to the doorstep of their owner, an instinct ingrained within them to feed those they love, despite their loved ones feeding and providing for them.

Such a convoluted metaphor, Hannibal smiles wider.

“I would never resist your claims, Will,” he says quietly, eyes closing in brief displeasure at the initial penetration, not smooth or comfortable as it could have been, yet not as cruel as Will’s entire demeanor suggests it should be.

No, this is trust. This is desire. This is a claiming and an owning that they give to each other, that will never be one-sided again.

Will’s hand holds fast against Hannibal’s throat, fingers pressing beneath the carved line of his jaw to force him to keep his eyes raised, focused through to the dining room where Randall lies dripping. Organic machinery, bone and steel, fur and oil spread across the table where they have mused over meals together, laughed over wine, pressed their legs together and knees and hands against legs and breathless kisses spilling first their napkins and then each other to the floor in their fervor. Blood has always darkened the wood between the seams, every plate stained in it, though to the eye immaculate. It seems appropriate that now it’s made visible, visceral and raw in front of them both.

Will jerks his arm a little, a quick tug against Hannibal’s throat to ensure he does not lower his head.

“Stay with me,” Will teases, low. He settles his legs inside of Hannibal’s and forces him into a wider spread, fingers seeking as deep as he can to hear Hannibal rumble beneath him. They turn and twist, press in jabbing thrusts, working the man - once doctor, once partner, once lover, once friend, now all those things and so much more - open with smoldering kisses dragged biting along his shoulder.

“You shaped me,” Will murmurs to him, to feed the ego, to watch it curl ravenous and proud. “Guided and changed me. You made me this way, released it from me. You did this, Hannibal. All of it.”

A coil, brief, shoulders pressing up into a curve, head held forward by Will’s tight grip against him. He could overpower, he could turn and free himself and press Will into just as compromising a position, have him breathless and panting quickly as easily as he could take his time.

But he does not. 

He allows Will’s words to pull at him, to caress and brush against him and fill his blood with heat and pleasure.

“I never could have predicted that you would become this,” Hannibal tells him, words awed, worshipful. “I can feed the caterpillar, I can whisper through the chrysalis, but when it hatches, it follows it’s own nature and is beyond me.”

He arches his back, presses back against Will’s hand in utter submission, shivers with the knowledge of such. His only submission, entire, to this man, his equal and his muse.

“Will.”

"Again."

Will grins against the back of Hannibal's neck, rolling his hips to drive his fingers forward, to sprawl Hannibal further across the counter. He releases his throat, a soft touch dragged back along his face, until it sinks against the back of his neck instead, to bend him even more.

"Will," Hannibal sighs again. His words form grey and fade across the cold marble beneath him.

Fingers spreading as wide as he can, Will rocks a steady pace against Hannibal from behind, his own arousal tenting against the rough material of his pants. There is a deep delight in this, rubbing himself against Hannibal in such a debasing way, smudging his counter, pressing Hannibal's cock against the cabinets, the body...

...the body that seems nearly to watch them from the other room, head crooked at an uncomfortable angle, eyes filmy and sunken.

Will jerks his attention away from it and back to Hannibal instead, pulling his fingers free with a hushing sound as Hannibal squirms, and working his own pants open instead.

This is not the first time Hannibal has allowed Will this, not the first time he has willingly bent for him, pulled him close and sighed his pleasure against Will’s parted lips. But this is the first time he has allowed such things in his kitchen, the first time he has allowed the place he holds most sacred to be violated in such a way.

Because Will needs this.

Beyond that, he wants this. He wants to claim Hannibal in the most base way possible in a place he will never forget it. In a place he cannot.

He will walk down to make breakfast tomorrow morning, see the counter and remember his breaths across it, see the fingerprints that are no longer there, smeared now as Will steps closer and Hannibal tilts his hips higher on his own, for Will, presenting and demanding and allowing this.

He wants this as much as Will does.

Craves to feel Will’s fingers against his skin, his lips and teeth and tongue, his words and promises and the carnal joining between them. He craves the man who is so close to allowing his true self free without remorse.

Hannibal looks on the offering that bleeds to the floor, lets his eyes softly close and his lips part as Will moans gently against him and bites his shoulder.

He is breached slowly, steadily, a smooth push forward as Will bends across him eased by a quick slicking of olive oil grabbed and cast aside, arms on either side of Hannibal’s shoulders. His fingers twitch and curl, one dropping to Hannibal’s waist to bring his hips angled high. A curve is set against his spine that Will follows with his hand before grasping Hannibal’s ass and spreading, pushing him open.

It leaves them both panting, bodies joined shuddering.

“Mounted and displayed,” Will breathes, snorting a warm laugh against Hannibal’s shoulder before he braces his hands against them and looks back to observe his work. The tousled hair, the rumpled clothing, the once-tidy counter smudged with fingerprints and spit, all skewed and distorted by Will.

His hand, if he released it to cruelty.

His mind, if he lost himself to the wild.

He wonders how many people have seen Hannibal this way, and the thought pulls at that little voice he’s tried to smother since glass cascaded down around him glittering like snow.

A groan, pleased, low, morphing into a pleasant sound of laughter that bounces off the counter, up into the cool air, but Hannibal says nothing, he closes his eyes to feel the sting, to feel the stretch and adjust to it. Will possessing him in the deepest possible way, the most divine torment.

For a moment more they both just breathe, a warm metronome out of time with the cold one, life released as death falls to the floor, and it seems to steady them both enough for Will to move, for him to duck his head and press himself in a desperate nuzzle between Hannibal’s shoulders, seeking comfort as well as to possess, harsh and soft, commanding and commanded.

The rhythm turns brutal, quick but never cruel. Deep enough to draw Hannibal’s breathing short, to bring his nails scraping silent over the marble counter. And all the while his eyes are up, on the body, on the blood, a sacrifice and gift both from the man behind him, within him, so close Hannibal can no longer tell his heartbeat from Will’s.

“Yes,” he sighs, ducks his head, arches his back.

For all his intent to dominate, to mount and rut and claim, asserting himself as a dangerous thing that he now - through the throbbing his knuckles, through the gore that looks on their dalliance unfeeling - Will feels himself losing even that. Perhaps he does not have to be, entirely, given to both halves of himself, a symmetry for them both - surgeon and executioner, investigator and criminal.

Doctor and patient.

With a harsh sigh, his forehead pressed against Hannibal's back, kissing warm along his spine, Will rubs his hips forward, grinding inside the man who moves for him and no one else. Deep enough to steal his breath, hard enough to leave bruises against his thighs where the counter presses into them, Will forces himself to slow, to draw this out, and slips a hand between their joined bodies.

Hannibal is heat, where Will touches him, to feel the oil-slick stretch of the man's body around his own, his physical form itself now altered by Will being here, as Will hopes the rest of him might be as well. A reassurance made tangible, pressing in a languid circle around Hannibal's opening as Will feels himself pull nearly out entirely, and then slide slow, slow back in.

The change is agonizing, shivering, almost ethereal if it wasn’t so easy to touch, to grasp, to feel against him inside and out and Hannibal allows another sound to escape him.

He wants to tell Will he’s proud of him, that seeing him bloodied and calm when he had come home had been the most exhilarating thing in his life. Watching Will evolve this way, adapt, become, it’s gratifying and powerful, delicious and almost frightening at once. He wants to tell Will that it gets easier after the first, after the first initial personal choice to take a life in this way, to bring it to someone he trusts, to bring it to Hannibal… he wants to tell him that after the second it feels good.

Instead he says nothing, curls fingers over the counter, bares his teeth in a snarl of pleasure and shoves back against Will so he has to fight to hold him pinned, but never to hold him close.

A play for pleasure not for struggle.

Will gasps against Hannibal’s shoulder, driving him back against the counter, the man’s own hardness untouched yet by Will who is consumed, now, consuming his own fulfillment only, a greed and a hunger that finds its satisfaction only like this, with the scent of blood still in his nose, Hannibal spread tight around him. Forcing his will onto another, and finding them made pliant and soft beneath him.

Will snarls, wordless, curling his own body over Hannibal’s, somehow larger despite his smaller frame, hands hooked over Hannibal’s shoulders to hold him in place, and make him take it. Take this. Take Will, as he is and as he could be.

He finishes with a groan that tears itself out from the depths of him, almost a howl caught against the still-clothed back of the man beneath him. Spasms rock his body as he fills Hannibal with ropes of heat, again and again, still thrusting even as his heart slows from its peak, even as his cock begins to soften.

“Mine,” he breathes, words rattling on ragged pants, as he dips a hand to Hannibal’s length without removing himself first. He curls his fingers around the twitching length of it, heavy and thick, flushed bright and pulsing in the rough wrist he turns to stroke him.

Hannibal turns his head to watch the heat of his breath fog up the counter and dissipate, fog and dissipate, over and over, ragged breaths and gritted teeth before he allows himself release, eyes on the blood, timing his heart to the slow drops.

“Yours by claim,” he sighs, smiling when Will nuzzles against him. “By choice. By right.”

He turns, then, beneath the weight still pinning him, turned pliant now with warmth and pleasure, and seeks Will’s lips with his own.

Will yields now to Hannibal instead, the aftershocks of ecstasy and agony cycling through him in shudders that push breaths from him between their lips. His hand is trembling when he sets it to Hannibal's cheek and ducks his head beneath his chin, seeking more than to take, to fill, to stuff and sate.

With a hum, Hannibal's arms surround Will instead as he straightens from the counter, and holds the smaller man against him.

"To bed," Hannibal instructs him softly, gliding a hand back over Will's sweat-curled hair before pressing his lips to his brow. He tastes of sweat, snow, dismay and death, the beast's and his own, reborn now in Hannibal's arms. "You need to sleep, to give your mind and body time to recover."

Eyes tilting upwards, Will seeks Hannibal's mouth again to quiet the words from him, but not before Hannibal can murmur, "Tomorrow, we will prepare the meat."


End file.
